The AnkhMorpork Connection
by MistressParamore
Summary: As owner of the Ankh-Morpork Detective Agency Sam 'Stoneface' Vimes finds himself confronted with a job that just might change his life. NOIR FIC. *HIATUS*
1. Chapter 1

_**The Ankh-Morpork Connection**_

_This is a new idea for me, one that I have been thinking of for a while. It is likely that I will be pretty much coming up with ideas as I write, so if I go horrendously off-track, let me know!_

_So, what is this fic all about? Well, it is set in the Noir genre. I know that there is continuing debate about what exactly constitutes Noir, so the elements that I am adopting are as follows. The cynical, hard-boiled detective, the femme fatale, cynicism and sexual motivations. Think low lighting, rainy nights, flickering street lamps set against the backdrop of gangs and mob/mafia with overtones of hopelessness, blackness or pessimism._

* * *

**Rating:** T potentially

**Disclaimer:** Sadly they are not mine. Pterry must take all credit. I just take them out for a short stroll every now and again.

**Note**: AU. No spoilers.

_This is AU. All characters are taken out of their comfort zone and treated to a hefty dose of artistic license… That being said, I am trying to remain faithful as much as I can to the Discworld tradition._

* * *

**Chapter One**

The rain continued to fall. It was the kind of rain that soaked you to the skin no matter what you wore. Sam 'Stoneface' Vimes leant against the door frame of the Ankh-Morpork Detective Agency and glared up at the darkening, cloud laden sky as he chewed on the stub of cigarette. Grand, unoriginal, name, slightly shoddy building, housed as it was down a dark alleyway and entrance was gained through a non-descript door that needed a fresh coat of paint and flight of steps so worn in the middle that you were liable to slip sideways in wet weather. Vimes wasn't bothered, the company had made a modest profit in the year that it had been operational and the hard to find building ensured he wasn't bothered by people who weren't serious.

He tipped his hat slightly further down his forehead to provide slightly more cover and sucked deeply on the evil dogend. He sighed and flicked the glowing butt into a puddle at his feet as he turned back into the flickering light of the doorway.

* * *

"Morning, boss," Fred 'Slim' Colon greeted Vimes the next morning. Vimes nodded and headed for the small kitchenette area of the main office, intent on a strong coffee. It was a peculiar quirk that 'Slim' Colon was something of a rotund figure of a man, but he was an excellent assistant detective.

"Anything happen this morning, Slim?" Vimes asked as he sank into a chair opposite Colon scrutinizing his coffee cup. It seemed intent on crawling up the sides.

"Ye gods," he muttered. "Do something with that coffee machine will you?"

"Well," the other man paused. "I dunno, really, it's nothing to do with us, but…"

Vimes sighed. "Slim, just spit it out will ya?" He rubbed a hand wearily across his face, the stubble rasping under his fingers.

Slim's portly face creased into a worried frown, the ever-present small beads of sweat on his forehead beginning to trickle down the bridge of his nose. He rubbed one hand worriedly across his ample stomach, pulling at the front of his white shirt.

"Well," he began again, "I just heard, like, someone shot The Grudge, last night, outside the Bunch of Grapes."

Vimes's mouth dropped open. "Someone actually shot The Grudge? Have they got a death wish?"

Vimes's mind raced. Whilst not actually impacting on them as an agency, keeping an ear to the ground proved to be useful. Most of the illegal trade in and out of the city went through The Grudge, amongst others. What stymied what passed for the law in Ankh-Morpork, was that it happened behind the façade of legitimate business, and as a result The Grudge got richer with impunity. He was also more than rich enough to bribe whomever he pleased. Vimes suspected that he continued bribing until he discovered the price someone was willing to sell his grandmother for.

Yet now someone had turned. Vimes felt his stomach begin to gently churn. He really wished he didn't know what the future held.

* * *

_**Any comments on this new idea? Tell me!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Ankh-Morpork Connection**_

_This is a new idea for me, one that I have been thinking of for a while. It is likely that I will be pretty much coming up with ideas as I write, so if I go horrendously off-track, let me know!_

_So, what is this fic all about? Well, it is set in the Noir genre. I know that there is continuing debate about what exactly constitutes Noir, so the elements that I am adopting are as follows. The cynical, hard-boiled detective, the femme fatale, cynicism and sexual motivations. Think low lighting, rainy nights, flickering street lamps set against the backdrop of gangs and mob/mafia with overtones of hopelessness, blackness or pessimism._

**Rating:** T potentially

**Disclaimer:** Sadly they are not mine. Pterry must take all credit. I just take them out for a short stroll every now and again.

**Note**: AU. No spoilers.

_This is AU. All characters are taken out of their comfort zone and treated to a hefty dose of artistic license… That being said, I am trying to remain faithful as much as I can to the Discworld tradition. _

* * *

_This is a short update to move things on a bit. A longer update is promised!_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

_**A couple of years later**_

The sound of hooves clattering on the cobbles floated through the partially open window of 'Stoneface' Vimes office, going unheeded by the man himself as he blearily lifted his head off the desk. The streetlamp outside guttered, casting flickering shadows and dancing on the off-white walls. Vimes rubbed his face tiredly, stubble rasping off his hands and grimacing as he attempted to work out the kinks in his neck.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, Vimes tottered to the door.

"Slim!" he shouted down the stairs. Leaning against the door, he mentally counted until he heard the first stair creak under Slim's weight. It was always exactly 11 seconds. He inwardly marvelled at the regularity of the man.

"Yessir?" Slim panted slightly.

"Pour me a coffee, Slim, i'll be down in a minute, yeah?"

"Yessir," Slim manoevred his bulk back down the stairs.

Vimes walked back over to his desk and tidied the papers that were lying there before making his way down the stairs.

"Here you are Boss," Slim pushed Stoneface's mug across the table as he slid into his place.

Peering inside the mug, he lifted his head and glared at Slim.

"Call this crap coffee, Slim?"

"It's all we got Sir," Slim shrugged, perspiration making his rosy face gleam.

"What time is it anyway?" Stoneface grimaced as he swallowed a mouthful.

"Just after 7," Slim held up his hands, "the Missus is out anyway."

Stoneface stared at him for a moment before mentally shrugging. He ran a hand through his brown hair, his lean face contorted in thought. Folding his hands behind his head, he leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, tracing the lines of a rogue crack.

"D'you remember a couple of years back, Slim, The Grudge was shot?"

"Yeah," Slim gave a low whistle. "Bent copper wasn't it?"

Stoneface murmured noncomittally. "Keel, yeah. Apparently the copper's out. Someone's also made sure he doesn't make the same mistake twice." He raised one eyebrow over his mug of coffee. "Someone's done him in."

* * *

A sharp knock on the door made the man studying the papers industriously look up.

"Come."

The door opened and a young, neat man entered. He approached the rich mahogany desk swathed in cigarette smoke and blinked as the rooms only source of light was trained upon him, rendering the seated figures into shadow.

"You have news, Drumknott?" The tall man enquired mildly.

Drumknott leaned over and whispered into the man's ear. A slow smile spread across the cold features.

"Do not let me detain you."

* * *

Dropping the paper onto his desk, Stoneface Vimes strode over to his office door.

"Slim!"

"Sir?" 'Slim' Colon appeared slightly breathlessly at the bottom of the stairs.

"We got a job, Slim, get thinking."

"What's it about boss?"

"Could be a big one, Slim, we gotta think seriously."

Slim nodded at his boss, fishing a cigarette from behind his ear and striking an evil looking match into flame. Inhaling the carcinogenic smoke, he offered one to his boss who took it absently, lighting his from Slim's.

"Put simply, Keel's family want to know who killed him."

Slim raised his eyebrows. "That's getting a bit hot Sir," he said worriedly. "We always said 'no gang stuff', it stands to reason it's one of them that did for Keel Sir." He twirled the cigarette between his fingers, tapping the ash into his now empty coffee mug.

"For god's sake Slim, use a bloody ashtray!" Stoneface snapped at his colleague. "I said to Keel's missus that we'd have a subtle look round and see, nothing definite."

"Sir..."

Stoneface leaned forward. "She's offering silly money. We've had no jobs for nearly a month. We need it."

"Yessir." Slim patted his pocket. Sometimes, you needed the reassurance of a sharp blade.

"I put Nobby onto it."

"What? Nobby?" Slim stared at his superior. "Is that, I mean, well, Nobby?"

"Yes it is a good idea," Stoneface said coldly. "It's one of mine."

It shouldn't be possible for footsteps to sound, well, sideways, but these did. Not only sideways, but furtive. These footsteps would loiter outside your door, and read your mail. Their owner merely reinforced this impression. Nobby Nobbs was, not to put too fine a point on it, unusual. He was a very short individual with a sideways, slightly crab like gait and was reportedly the only person who carried documentation as to his species status. His face was a bizarre collection of boils and dermatological puzzlement.

"You were right, Sir" Nobby grinned. "Been in the Blue Cat alright," Nobby's grin widened. It was a thoroughly disturbing sight. "Great big wench works there remembered him. Strapping, she is," he leered approvingly. He shook out his cloak, dumping icy water onto the table.

"Shut up," Stoneface said absently, patting his pockets for his smokes. "Slim, you're coming with me," Vimes stood up and stretched.

"Where're we going, Sir?"

"The Blue Cat." He slapped Slim on the back, grinning at the other man's rictus of horror. "Those who dare, Slim, those who dare."

* * *

_**Comments? Let me know :)**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**The Ankh-Morpork Connection**_

_This is a new idea for me, one that I have been thinking of for a while. It is likely that I will be pretty much coming up with ideas as I write, so if I go horrendously off-track, let me know!_

_So, what is this fic all about? Well, it is set in the Noir genre. I know that there is continuing debate about what exactly constitutes Noir, so the elements that I am adopting are as follows. The cynical, hard-boiled detective, the femme fatale, cynicism and sexual motivations. Think low lighting, rainy nights, flickering street lamps set against the backdrop of gangs and mob/mafia with overtones of hopelessness, blackness or pessimism._

**Rating:** T potentially

**Disclaimer:** Sadly they are not mine. Pterry must take all credit. I just take them out for a short stroll every now and again.

**Note**: AU. No spoilers.

_This is AU. All characters are taken out of their comfort zone and treated to a hefty dose of artistic license… That being said, I am trying to remain faithful as much as I can to the Discworld tradition. _

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Stoneface Vimes and Slim Colon stopped outside the entrance to The Blue Cat, Slim nervously chewing his cigarette as his eyes darted back and forth. The Blue Cat was quite a high class club, with clientele being of the notorious 'don't ask, don't tell', variety. In another universe, words like '_mob_' and '_mafia_' could be used to describe them. Money was made, nobody asked where or how. The startling thing about The Blue Cat was that it never, ever generated any trouble. Species with huge ancestral hatreds such as trolls and dwarves drank peaceably together and retribution was waged equably upon whoever caused trouble. Even the undead drank undisturbed provided they removed their own ectoplasm or grave dirt. Vimes had always thought reasonably favourably of The Blue Cat, it ran by itself and didn't cause trouble, problems were dealt with with an even handed justice to all – harsh but fair. That was the kind of place he liked – it didn't cause him any hassle. Now he seemed to be tasked with ripping the lid off a notorious drinking establishment, frequented by people whose crimes such as money laundering and illegal business practices were just the tip of the iceberg for starters. Vimes _really_ didn't want to think of what would happen if they took a real dislike to you. Your life was likely to be short but eventful. He shuddered.

Vimes glanced sideways at Colon. His round face was set in a grimace, his eyes wide. Vimes was sure his was set in a similar expression. His hands felt too clammy and his stomach seemed to want to leap out of his throat. Swallowing hard, he nudged Colon.

"Come on Slim, let's try and find out what Keel was up to, yeah?"

Colon managed a strangled noise.

"Slim," he hissed. "Stop pissing about or we're fucked! Just try and look like you came here for a drink, ok?"

Although, he had to admit that that was not without its flaws – Colon was a man who had a permanent sheen of perspiration even in the depths of winter.

Giving Colon a shove in front of him, Vimes opened the large, imposing door of the club.

A heavily stylised and haughty blue cat stared down its aristocratic nose at him from the glass panel in the door.

Vimes noted sourly that, in deference to its monied clientele, the club resided in the select Ankh part of the city. It didn't seem to matter where the filthy lucre came from, but if you had it, you were welcome. No one was going to ask too many questions.

As the door closed behind them with an almost inaudible 'thump' of compressed air, they blinked, trying to accustom their eyes to the gloom and Vimes registered the momentary lull in conversation as the clubs patrons glanced towards them.

"Gentlemen?"

As Vimes turned his head, he tried not to stare. An immaculately attired troll stood politely before them, his tuxedo crisp and fresh, the shades worn for style rather than necessity.

"May I take your capes? It is somewhat wet and I doubt you will want to sit with them." He held out one overlarge hand politely.

"Um, yes, of course." Vimes fumbled with the clasp of his cape clumsily. Slim, he noted, had reverted back to his perma-rictus.

_He hasn't even got any lichen on him! Even the moss is trimmed! Whoever owns this joint is richer than Flint..._

"What's your name?" Vimes asked weakly as the troll led them smoothly to a vacant table. The club seemed to be arranged with several small, intimate, round tables lit by low lamps, surrounding a circular stage off to one side where a young woman was singing a passably pleasant jazzy song. A bar ran down one side of the club, along which a number of the clubs patrons were leaning and watching the singer.

"Malachite," the troll replied without missing a beat.

"Just Malachite?" Vimes heard the voice with horror and wished his ears could crawl back into his head. But the troll seemed unperturbed.

Casting one gleaming eye upon them, glinting through the dark lens of his shades, he replied, " 'Just' Malachite. Enjoy your evening." With a smooth bow he left them.

Almost immediately a dwarf appeared at their elbows. Beard neatly trimmed, white shirt ironed almost to a point, black bowtie faultless and, as Vimes surreptitiously leaned sideways, _no iron boots or partially concealed axe_.

"Drinks, Sirs?"

"Um, a scotch please, ah, better make that two." With a brief bow, the dwarf withdrew.

Glancing around in the smoky gloom, Vimes had to admit it was a well run establishment. A few other tables were occupied, every now and then an orange glow bobbed in the shadowy darkness as someone sucked on a cigarette, smoke coiling thickly above the tables.

On the stage, the young woman left to a smatter of lukewarm applause but didn't seem too bothered by it. In her place the pianist struck up an up-tempo tune over which conversations were resumed.

A voice like this could turn a man to mush. A voice like this could click her fingers and have men begging at her feet. A voice like this promised wonders as yet untold. A voice like this made molten fire jolt down Vimes' backbone. Without turning around he knew _exactly_ who that voice belonged to. It was a voice of cigarettes and cocktails and got exactly what it wanted.

"Sybil 'Jewel' Ramkin."

* * *

_**Comments? Tell me!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**The Ankh-Morpork Connection**_

_This is a new idea for me, one that I have been thinking of for a while. It is likely that I will be pretty much coming up with ideas as I write, so if I go horrendously off-track, let me know!_

_So, what is this fic all about? Well, it is set in the Noir genre. I know that there is continuing debate about what exactly constitutes Noir, so the elements that I am adopting are as follows. The cynical, hard-boiled detective, the femme fatale, cynicism and sexual motivations. Think low lighting, rainy nights, flickering street lamps set against the backdrop of gangs and mob/mafia with overtones of hopelessness, blackness or pessimism._

**Rating:** T potentially

**Disclaimer:** Sadly they are not mine. Pterry must take all credit. I just take them out for a short stroll every now and again.

**Note**: AU. No spoilers.

_This is AU. All characters are taken out of their comfort zone and treated to a hefty dose of artistic license… That being said, I am trying to remain faithful as much as I can to the Discworld tradition. _

* * *

**Chapter Four**

She looked just the same. The same luxuriant chestnut curls pinned up, the same rich brown eyes that could look into his soul, the scarlet mouth in a bewitching smile, and _that_ figure. Curves that begged to be explored. Just thinking of them made Vimes feel hot all over. He wondered if she knew that he was already hers, completely and totally. Always had been.

"Are you not going to introduce me to your friend, Captain?"

The smoky voice cut through his thoughts. She gave him an innocent smile and raised her cigarette holder to her ruby lips whilst narrowing her eyes at him. Colon had, up until this point, been sitting with his mouth hanging open in surprise.

"You know _her_?"

"Long story Slim." Vimes really hoped Slim wouldn't push it.

"But boss, she's a moll!" Slim hissed in a bad stage whisper. Jewel narrowed her eyes and her face hardened.

"Is there something you wish to say or do you treat all women this way?" She asked tartly.

With a poker straight face, Vimes responded, "Do I have to rhyme too?"

Ignoring him, Saybil Ramkin took a long drag from her cigarette holder.

"What brings you to The Blue Cat then Sam? Not your usual hang out is it?" She walked slowly towards him, swaying her hips slightly in the black dress that set off her curves and full bosom. Vimes cleared his throat as he tried to tear his eyes away.

"Business," he muttered finishing his scotch.

Jewel snorted. "You don't have business here, _Captain_." She stressed the last word.

Vimes slammed his glass on the table.

"You _don't_ tell me what I do or don't do, Jewel." Vimes' voice could have cut steel.

"I see," Sybil said coldly. "Some things never change, do they Sam?" Her ruby lips curled in a sneer as she extinguished the cigarette.

"I'll tell you one thing for nothing. No one here will help you." Replacing her cigarette in the slim black holder, Sybil stared coolly at Vimes. "Make of that what you will."

She glanced at Vimes' empty glass. "I take it you're going?" Her eyebrows arched and the none too subtle hint was picked up by both men.

Standing up, Vimes glared at Sybil. "Do you treat all customers this way?" His remark made direct reference to her earlier snipe.

Smirking, Sybil pursed her lips. "Only those for whom I have no further use."

Vimes felt his face flame. Damn the woman. Damn her to bloody hell. "We're outta here, Slim," Vimes barked to his colleague. As he strode away from the table he could feel her eyes on him, burning a hole in his back. He _wouldn't _turn around, he wouldn't give her the satisfaction..._he turned around_. She was walking away, but he _knew_ that she knew...damn the woman. Damn her.

~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~

_Oh gods, is it morning already? _Vimes groaned and rolled over, burying his face into his pillow. He hadn't slept all night and could perfectly recall every cacophonous hour as tolled across the city. Sybil 'Jewel' Ramkin kept floating magnificently across his mind's eye. Sometimes in intimate detail. He groaned again. He already felt lousy and he hadn't even got up yet. Unbidden his hand dropped to the side of his bed and curled naturally around the neck of the bottle there. A bottle of Bearhugger's would make it all make sense.

~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~

A door slammed. Then slammed again and again, as if the slammer was venting their spleen. Slim Colon and Nobby Nobbs, sitting in the main office, ducked their heads over their coffee cups. Only one person could be slamming that door.

"Who the hell has been dropping fag butts outside the main door? Looks like a shit hole!" Stoneface Vimes strode through the outer door, slamming it behind him. "Nobby!"

The little man jumped guiltily. "Boss?" He quavered.

"It was you wasn't it?" Vimes asked in a deceptively mild tone.

"Er...might have been, Sir." Nobby sagged with relief. "Had a lot on me mind Sir, what with the extra practices with the folk club and everything..."

"Get your backside out there and sweep them up!" Vimes roared. He swore Nobby's feet actually jumped into the air before running for the door.

Vimes turned his baleful eyes on Colon who studiously examined his mug.

"Get me a coffee, Slim," he snapped. Slim judiciously didn't mention the haze of alcohol surrounding him. He hadn't been right since they'd returned from The Blue Cat the night before. That big woman had got to Sam, he could tell. It was almost like they had a history, but they couldn't have because she was, well, she was a moll, and a notorious one at that. As far as Slim knew, no one really knew anything about her except she was in with the mob. There the trail ended. So what did the boss have to do with her? And what was with the 'Captain' thing? If the boss wasn't careful he was gonna go the way of Keel, Slim was sure of it. It wasn't as if the boss had anything to take his mind off it either, last woman brought him low, Nobby said. Slim didn't want to know any more. Stood to reason, only something like a woman could make a man like the boss. Slim grimaced as he poured the coffee. He couldn't see the day getting any better either.

~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~

"We're not getting anywhere with the Keel investigation, Slim." Vimes gratefully took the coffee and swallowed a mouthful of the scalding liquid before continuing. "If the suspects are from the mob, then somehow we need an informer to crack and give us a concrete lead we can take back to Mrs Keel. And then hopefully we can walk away," he added.

Nobby slipped quietly into his seat, giving Vimes a mutinous look that was ignored. "I know one of the lads in the kitchens," he volunteered. "Grew up on my street he did, used to run errands for me mum."

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Vimes leaned over the table and pinched Nobby's cigarette. Lighting it he waved at Nobby who paused by the door. "Ask him about the staff at The Blue Cat as well, subtle though." Not that Nobby would manage it, he inwardly thought. Subtlety and Nobby were about as likely as, well as likely as Nobby and any form of personal hygiene.

Slim stared sideways at his boss. He was bright enough to know that what his boss meant was 'information about Sybil 'Jewel' Ramkin'. He sighed. Whatever Jewel was, at the moment she was a whole lot of trouble.

* * *

_**Comments? Tell me!**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**The Ankh-Morpork Connection**_

_This is a new idea for me, one that I have been thinking of for a while. It is likely that I will be pretty much coming up with ideas as I write, so if I go horrendously off-track, let me know!_

_So, what is this fic all about? Well, it is set in the Noir genre. I know that there is continuing debate about what exactly constitutes Noir, so the elements that I am adopting are as follows. The cynical, hard-boiled detective, the femme fatale, cynicism and sexual motivations. Think low lighting, rainy nights, flickering street lamps set against the backdrop of gangs and mob/mafia with overtones of hopelessness, blackness or pessimism._

**Rating:** T potentially

**Disclaimer:** Sadly they are not mine. Pterry must take all credit. I just take them out for a short stroll every now and again.

**Note**: AU. No spoilers.

_This is AU. All characters are taken out of their comfort zone and treated to a hefty dose of artistic license… That being said, I am trying to remain faithful as much as I can to the Discworld tradition._

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Nobby spread his cards on the table with a flourish and, grinning, scooped the coins in the middle of the table towards him. Slim Colon threw his cards down and glared across the table at his colleague.

"I swear you fix the deck Nobby," he grumbled, fishing a cigarette out of a crumpled packet and lighting it with a sulpherous evil lucifer from an even more battered match box. Inhaling deeply, he glanced up the stairs towards Vimes' office where the door had remained stubbornly shut all afternoon. Nobby hadn't been back long from his scouting expedition to the kitchens of The Blue Cat, but Vimes was yet to emerge.

"What do you reckon then?" Slim shuffled the greasy deck and looked at Nobby in askance.

"About what?" Nobby shifted in his seat uneasily. He'd known both Colon and Vimes for years, but direct questions made him uneasy. For a man who sidled through life, a direct approach unsettled him. It was like asking him for a confession.

"The boss. Why he's not come out of his office," Colon shrugged. "His bad temper...well ok, his worse than usual temper...I dunno. You know." Colon trailed off.

Nobby chewed his cigarette for a minute, scratching at a fresh patch of scabs on his arms.

"Dunno really," he said thoughtfully. "That big wench at The Blue Cat's got to him ain't she," he grinned the most feral grin Colon had seen. "I reckon he's..."

"What? Do share your astounding insights Nobby." Vimes' voice cut in darkly, making both men jump. Vimes descended the stairs from his office glaring at Colon and Nobby.

"Don't let me stop your scintillating conversation," he snapped churlishly as he made his way to the kitchenette to get a much needed coffee. Vimes looked like hell. He was unshaven and both Nobby and Colon suspected he had slept in the crumpled shirt he was wearing. They glanced at each other over the table before both dropping their eyes to avoid eye contact Vimes.

Nobby coughed and decided to try to broach a change of subject.

"Sir, I saw Reg, you know the lad in the kitchens at The Blue Cat?" Nobby looked down at some crumpled paper in his lap. "Didn't know much, but says that big...er...Sybil Ramkin, owns it." He glanced down again. "Quite a lot of staff apparently, most have mob connections, but that's rumour." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I reckon he was scared, boss. But he did say that Sybil's husband was big. Really big. Like 'ran the city' big."

Vimes' face was expressionless as he took in the information.

He nodded curtly. "Good job, Nobby."

The sound of hooves on the cobbles outside made them all look up. The office was sufficiently far down a side street for any traffic to be looking directly for them. As they listened, a knock sounded on the main door.

Vimes jerked his head towards the door as he looked at Nobby. Wordlessly, the other man rose to his feet and descended the stairs. He returned a minute later with a distinguished looking late middle aged man.

Vimes raised his eyebrows.

"Which one of you is Mister Vimes?" The man swept the office with deep brown eyes, his refined tones concealing just the requisite amount of disdain as he surveyed the seated men.

Standing up, Vimes stared coolly back. "I am," he said shortly. "Can I help you?"

"Yes. I have a client who would like to hire your services."

"I don't discuss business with people when I don't even know their names." Vimes took a drag of his cigarette in a nonchalant manner and squinted at their visitor through the smoke.

"Willikins." The man responded curtly.

Over a muffled snort from Nobby, Vimes nodded and said "You already know mine. Do you have a first name to go with that Willikins?"

"It's Willikins." The man responded coolly.

"And your client?"

A voice rang from the doorway, making them all turn around. Vimes nearly choked on his cigarette when he saw who was standing there.

"Thank you, Willikins. I'll take it from here."

"Are you sure, ma'am?"

"Quite sure, thank you." Willikins bowed and after sweeping his gaze around the room once more, swept out of the door.

Sybil 'Jewel' Ramkin stood by the door. A slim cigarette holder in one gloved hand, her modest midnight blue dress belted at the waist accentuating rather than hiding her allure. Her ruby lips closed around the cigarette holder as she pulled deeply on it. She smiled as she looked directly at Sam Vimes.

"Well? Aren't you going to invite me in?"

~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~ ~DW~

"Is that any way to treat your customers, _Captain_?" Sybil slowly removed her gloves as she crossed her legs, levelling her gaze at Vimes who was seated behind his desk. After having got over his shock, he had ushered Sybil upstairs to his office, knowing that pandemonium was likely to break out in his wake.

"What do you want, Jewel?" He snapped, more harshly than he intended, to cover his confusion.

Sybil glared at him through narrowed eyes.

"I don't like your attitude, Sam. In fact," she picked her gloves up off her lap and stood up, drawing herself up to her full height. "Forget the whole thing." She turned around and walked towards his office door.

"Jewel, wait. Wait. Please." Vimes called after her. "I just didn't expect you to come here, that's all. Please. Sit back down."

Sybil half turned, hand on the doorknob, considering. He swore he could actually see the thoughts going across her mind. Pouting her ruby lips, she stared directly at him with eyes that burned with a heat he couldn't place.

"One comment out of place, Sam, and I will take my business elsewhere. Remember that."

Their eyes met across the room, as Jewel walked slowly back to the wooden chair across from his desk.

"I can hardly forget," Vimes murmured.

Unbidden, Vimes' hand played down the front of his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer, revealing a half full bottle of Bearhuggers. Snagging the neck of the bottle, Vimes pulled out a couple of glasses and placed them on the desk. With a dark smile, he murmured "With ginger and ice, still?"

With an equally dark smile playing about her lips, Jewel nodded. Lighting her cigarette, she twirled the elegant cigarette holder."You're good, Sam. Very good. Not many would still remember. But then you always did have an excellent memory." She levelled her gaze across the desk, meeting Vimes' dark gaze and holding it unflinchingly.

Silently he handed her her drink, his fingers grazing her delicate ones. Jewel gasped lightly at the fleeting, whispery contact, fiery sensations tingling in her fingertips. Vimes stared at her, just as surprised. Coughing a little to hide his his confusion, he took a gulp of Bearhuggers and was more than a little gratified to see her trying to cover her own confusion with taking a large mouthful, leaving a scarlet imprint on her glass. Gods, i'm never washing that glass...

"Willikins said something about hiring our services?" Vimes attempted to steer the conversation back from the dangerous precipice he could sense in front of them.

"Ah, yes..." Jewel nodded, her flawless chestnut curls dancing softly around the bejewelled clips she wore. "I want you to find something for me."

Vimes made a noncommittal, encouraging noise as he took another sip.

Jewel sighed, twirling her glass and tracing her finger around the rim in an unconsciously suggestive manner. "My husband, he died a couple of years ago. He had a dangerous...occupation." Her pause was minimal, but Vimes heard it and made note.

"Yesterday, I returned from The Blue Cat and found his safe had been forced. I want you to recover what was in there."

Vimes paused only fractionally. "I'm sorry, Jewel. The answer's no."

"**What?** How dare you!" Sybil's cheeks flushed with anger. "Who made you so high and mighty?"

"If you can't tell me the truth then I can't work properly with you."

"I've told you all you need to know, Captain."

Vimes looked steadily at her. "I don't think you have, have you Jewel? I always said 'no' to working with the mob."

"I can ruin you, Sam Vimes. I would urge you to reconsider."

"I'm sure you could," he agreed calmly. "No truth, no job."

"I do not take kindly to blackmail, _Captain_."

"And I do not take kindly to threats. Close the door on your way out."

Picking up her handbag, Jewel glared at Vimes as she stalked to the door. "You're so strong, _Captain_. Force can get you many things, but not the truth." Eyes blazing, she slammed the door so hard the glass rattled in the windows.

Vimes sighed as he finished his drink. Reaching across the desk, he picked up Jewel's glass and rolled it absently across his chin, picking up her scent. Somehow he didn't think he'd seen the last of her.

* * *

**Comments would be gratefully received :)**


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